So, we're back from Sin City. I know the city's newish motto is "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." And I found that to be both true and false. The falsehood? My hangover did not stay in Vegas. (No, it came home on the airplane with me to three needy children and a hyper-active dog.) The truth? Well, my gambling money did stay. (Guess I will not be re-carpeting the family room after all.)

For the most part it was a wonderful trip. I can highly recommend the spa at the MGM Grand. Ditto the West Wing suites there. I do believe I single-handedly raised the water bill by about three thousand dollars due to some incredibly long showers. But the casino took all my money at the machines and tables so "even-steven", I say. And at dinner Friday night we enjoyed a bottle of wine that cost more than my first car. (A highly desirable pea-green '71 AMC Gremlin, if you must know.) But after two full days of people and noise and smoke and lights I was ready to come home. Call me a travel wimp but frankly, I missed my kids. Enough so that I didn't even care that I had to board a plane to get back to them. Of course, that could've been due in part to the tranquilizer washed down with cocktails at the airport bar beforehand.

And here's something else that can just stay in Vegas...

Late one night we decided to throw some money in the machines at the video poker bar on our way back to the room and as there were not two seats together we split up and sat a couple spaces apart.

Moments after my husband disappeared, the seat to my left vacated and what sat down next to me at the video poker bar looked a lot like Yoda, only a couple inches taller and wearing a polyester suit instead of a bathrobe. But the same bulging eyes, the same mere allusion of hair, the same pointy ears. Only this one had a wedding ring...you know, sorta imbedded into his left ring finger because it was first adorned maybe ten years ago before he gained that extra thirty pounds? The kind of guy that I wouldn't go home with (unmarried and sans kiddos) even if the surface of the earth were covered in 15 feet of urine and he lived in the only tree house. Get the picture?

Now since I am overly generous in regard to my child-birthing, my husband is equally generous with jewelry-giving and I sport a diamond that from the top of Mt. Evans on a clear day can easily be seen from the Space Station. So this toadstool knew I was "taken" and yet he still swiveled toward me on his bar seat and waggling his eyebrows (urgh!) said, "So..... (insert yet more eyebrow waggling here) are ya happily married?" Apparently after fifteen Jack and Cokes this serves as a pick-up line on Unfaithful Spouse Planet. Wouldn't know, don't live there. Now I was raised to be polite in the "if you don't have anything nice to say then don't say anything at all" way. But I turned and looked him right in his buggy little pig eyes and said, (somewhat icily, I'll admit) "Why? Are you about to turn into George Clooney?" *

Well, I obviously had violated some sort of infidelity pick-up line rule because he said something to me that I won't share in this fine family publication, slammed his cocktail on the bar top and stalked off, rebuffed. Poor thing.

It could've been worse, I suppose. He could've started telling me how his wife "just doesn't understand him" and all those sorts of things. I've been married to my husband for fourteen years and while he confuses me pretty much on a weekly basis, the only time I didn't understand him was when he called from his cousin's wedding reception after the open bar had closed down for the night.

When I got home I downloaded the Hoyle Casino game on my computer and now after all the kiddies are in bed I pour myself a big glass of wine (not the expensive stuff my alter-ego drinks in Vegas...no, the real me buys the cheap stuff in a box with a tap) and I play a little video poker complete with sound effects! Much, much cheaper and no airplane ride necessary. And if someone is puffing hot stinky breath in my ear and trying to put their head in my lap, I know it's just the dog!

Thank you, Las Vegas, for being there. And thank you for letting one over-worked mom and wife see that sometimes the best part of a vacation is when it is over.

* like most long-married couples, my husband and I have previously agreed upon exceptions to most of the marital by-laws. For instance, himself would happily leave me for Portia DeRossi should she ever decide to switch teams and I would gladly wave good-bye to him for George Clooney even if it means drinking limoncello until four in the morning with Danny Devito hanging around.